


collision; the drabbles

by itjustkindahappened



Series: collision; mythology/fairytale!verse [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (but probably not a whole lot of it. they're all happy now), Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Dark Harry, Emotionally Stunted Because Of Trauma But Actually Possessing a Heart of Gold!Harry, Fairy Louis, Fluff, Love/Hate, M/M, better, but mostly love, even tho it REALLY isn't, liam as a shape shifter, niall as cupid, u all know the drill by now, zayn as a fairy tale prince
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:49:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26284474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itjustkindahappened/pseuds/itjustkindahappened
Summary: Timestamps, drabbles, and other fun things.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Series: collision; mythology/fairytale!verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827670
Comments: 65
Kudos: 331





	1. drabble; wings and the soul

**Author's Note:**

> THIS SERIES IS A PART OF THE COLLISION UNIVERSE. so if you haven't read the fic, these probably won't make a lot of sense. (of course you're welcome to read anyway. i can't tell you what to do. but you have been warned.)
> 
> me, having finished the last epilogue: i am FREE! <333 my shackles are coming loose! i shall be a prisoner of this 5 year project no longer! i finished something of substance in this pointless abyss of existence and now i shall reap the reward of relaxing!  
> me, 5 seconds after posting the last epilogue: ....................... :(
> 
> anyway. the whole collision storyline remains finished but every once in a while i have a lil, private n self-indulgent urge to revisit these boys. so i might as well post it when i do! just in case some small, lone, distant soul out there still feels like they would be interested despite already having read 224k of this dumb story. hope u enjoy xxxxx

A fairy’s wings are an extension of their soul.

Louis’ always known this—felt it, of course, but he’s never thought about it in those exact words. They come to him first in his Mythological Anatomy class in his second university year, and the second they leave his professor’s mouth, they take root in Louis’ heart in the most peculiarly peaceful way.

He catches some of the subtle, pitying looks flicking his way as the professor dives deeper into the subject—as if they’re waiting for Louis to show any signs of sadness, of regret and uncomfortableness, as if he may get up and leave—but the thing, Louis thinks, is that they don’t _understand_.

He wouldn’t have, either, certainly. Before everything happened, the concept of a fairy feeling happy and whole after having lost their wings felt flat out laughable. Unthinkable. Shouldn’t something be forever missing in their hearts? Shouldn’t their skin always feel a little bit cold, their bodies a little too heavy? Shouldn’t it be a miserable, lonely life having had and lost such a thing?

For a while, after everything had happened, he stood by that, too. He felt empty, and he was traumatized, and his feet were stuck to the ground in the most hopeless way. He saw very few ways out of a life plagued by it.

But then Camron swooped in, standing on his doorstep with a second chance wrapped up in his arms, and well. That changed everything, didn’t it?

Because, see, the brilliant thing about this pair of wings that Louis didn’t even reflect over when he first got them, is that he had to get to _know_ them. They were a humble acquaintance who slowly turned into the dearest of friends; he’s had to work with them, familiarize himself, put in the time and effort and tears and sweat and his everything. Camron has adjusted and adjusted them as time’s gone along and he’s developed new techniques, shaping them into something more delicate, more reliable, more self-sufficient, and Louis’ adapted to all of it—they’ve grown and changed alongside each other and will continue to do so, and now that he can fly with them, now that they feel like second nature, haven’t they become an extension of himself, in a way? Isn’t it quite unavoidable, to give something this much time, and end up with parts of yourself clinging to it?

Here’s what his classmates don’t understand:

Louis loves—he _loves_ —his wings. He loves the neat, braided pattens framing them, created by careful, skilled and considerate little hands, from nothing into something and lovelier than everything. He loves the way they look and smell like earth—smell like _home_ , look like home, feel like home under his fleeting fingertips—he loves the way the sunlight filters through them, illuminating them ever so softly into a humble kind of forest gold. He loves that he can design them himself, adorn them with daisies and forget-me-nots in the summer, and blossoming birch leaves and violas in the fall, and hellebores in the winter, and scillas in the spring; he keeps them alive and changing, a footprint of every season. Just like his heart feels, sometimes.

He loves the way they’re crafted just for him. He loves that while his previous wings were his in a way these could never be, _these_ wings are also his in a way his old wings could never be. They reflect everything he loves and everything he’s overcome in every imperfect nook and gentle crease. He _worked_ for these. They hold so much of his patience and grit and pride and joy. He’s so fucking proud of them.

Harry understood this earlier than Louis did himself—of course, it’s always easier to see things clearly when you’re not standing in the smudgiest mid of it. Louis’ a bit ashamed thinking back on how much lamenting and sadness and self-pity the spirit’s occasionally had to endure from him, knows it must’ve hurt Harry all the more to feel everything so deeply within himself, too, but Harry hasn’t shown any signs of annoyance or bother. Time and time again, he’s just reassured and held close until Louis felt better.

Only once did he let some frustration seep through. To be fair, they were both in a mood that day and the conversation was already verging on a fight, and things work a little differently, then. It went something like this:

 _“Do you even know what’s you, Louis? Do you know what_ actually _makes up your person?”_

_“I’d imagine so, since I’m the one living as me.” Louis’ voice is icy and passive, but it doesn’t faze Harry at all._

_“Stubbornness,” he continues as if Louis’ hasn’t even said anything at all._

_Louis can’t fucking stand him sometimes. “Okay? Is that supposed to make me feel better? At_ all _?”_

_One of Harry’s hands run through his hair before it clenches by his side, but otherwise his fiery gaze stays unwavering on him. He’s going to ignore what Louis’ saying again, Louis can just tell._

_“And bravery,” he continues. Louis’ theory stands correct. “Kindness. Pride. Grit. You’re smart and loyal and hilarious and you never think things through but always find ways to make them work anyway, and newsflash—none of that went away with your wings! Wings represent the_ creature _, not the other fucking way around! You’re still here, Louis! Every single thing that I fell in love with is still right here.”_

_This may run up to be one of the strangest fights they’ve ever had. Louis’ never been this offended while on the receiving end of so many compliments in his life._

_“You don’t fucking—” he tries to cut in, but Harry’s just not letting himself be cut off at this point._

_“What? Know what I’m talking about? You can use that excuse on everyone else around you, but not on me.”_

_And. Well. Fuck Harry for all of this, but Louis can’t really argue with that specific point._

_Where the red-hot anger had been needling through the spaces between his ribs previously, a violet shade of reluctant guilt trickles in in its place. His and Harry’s experiences are vastly different, but Louis thinks, maybe he tends to disregard the ways they are the same. Harry’s alive, isn’t he? Harry’s whole. He found ways to feel whole. Doesn’t Louis owe himself a little more hope?_

_Harry can tell that the fury is slowly starting to seep away from Louis’ body—he can always tell—and sighs. It doesn’t take long before he’s stumbling up to Louis, and then envelops him in a hug so encompassing Louis feels like he could live in it._

_“Just. Stop putting yourself down, you absolute tit,” he murmurs against the crown of Louis’ head._

His words had stuck with Louis a little bit more persistently after that. _Wings represent the creature, not the other way around_. It became sort of a mantra whenever he started to sink. _Wings represent the creature_. And, yeah. Looking back at his journey, Louis has to confirm. They do. His wings represent him—so who’s he or anyone else to belittle them? They share so many quirks and hold so much growth. He loves them in a way you can only love something that’s born from your own labor.

Louis loves his wings in a way no winged creatures around him could understand. It’s his private, wonderful little secret.

And so, when his professor says that one particular thing in class, and heads start to turn in Louis’ direction, and chairs start to squeak from uncomfortable shuffling in seats, Louis just starts to smile. He smiles, and smiles, and notes it down in his book, and he circles it in yellow, and he feels good. Calm.

A fairy’s wings are an extension of their soul, and Louis’ wings and soul alike rose from below the earth to sail into the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this first one’s for the kings who called me a bitch for not giving louis his old wings back........, i, too, sometimes wish for bad writing for the sake of my own closure <3
> 
> jokes aside. i think the idea of louis with his new, hand-made wings is lovely. n i think maybe i didn’t quite emphasize that enough in the epilogue—at least not explicitly why i think so. 
> 
> ultimately, giving collision the ending i gave it came from me wanting to depict the process of going through trauma in a fair, well-rounded way. and this isn’t me trying to say that i wanted it to be “realistic” and therefore Ruthlessly Deprived Louis Of His Happy Ending. 1. i did give him a happy ending and 2. i’m well aware i’ve written a fantasy fic—depicting reality isn’t exactly my first priority. but *slaps roof of louis with ptsd* this bad boy can fit SO much self-projection and once i’d put him through the process of experiencing something traumatic, and then navigating that and starting to work through it, it felt. i don’t wanna say shallow but yeah a little shallow? to just simply let him have his old wings back and act like that would suddenly undo the hurt he went through and mend every scar he had. it would be weak writing to make that the Big Resolve. they wouldn’t actually fix as much as we may wish, when it comes down to it; not a whole lot would change. louis still went through what he did, and old wings back or not, he was still bound to feel disoriented, lost and suffocated. therefore, it felt infinitely better to me, in my tiny private lil heart, to deliberately let louis find a NEW happy ending and heal DESPITE losing such a large part of himself--to let him REfind that part of himself, on his own. because he did!!! the happiness he found is in no way “second” to whatever he felt before. just new. 
> 
> louis getting his old wings back wouldn’t have given neither louis nor you the closure you’re looking for, is what i’m trying to say. i stand by the ending i chose n none of it was done with like.., malice (shdvj can't believe i even have to say that). i'm genuinely not trying to write misery porn. i just thought this was a lovelier ending to depict in the grand scheme of things; that it is possible to lose what feels like everything, and still find a way to gain it back through your own strength. it's ok to be upset, but it's a rly comforting ending for me. and what louis "deserves" or not isn't really the point. of course he didn't deserve it. i have endless tenderness in my heart for this dumb little boy.
> 
> anyway!! i have at least one other timestamp in the works. hopefully i'll see u again soon <3333333


	2. timestamp; birthday boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis' birthday's coming up, and Harry's determined to get it right. His nerves are dealing. Somewhat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is FLUFF!!!! god there's so much fluff. idek if there are any hints of angst--maybe if u count harry being insecure n nervy as angst, there is a lil. but mostly this is literally just harry trying to handle louis' birthday and loving him ridiculous amounts. and also slowly losing his mind a lil because of it. but i thought it'd be a nice look into their established relationship + a lil expansion of their personalities :') (also i'm still tryin to make up a lil for the angst of the og story i swear i am in my bones a fluffy writer n don't rly know what happened there.)
> 
> i also have NO idea how the hell this ended up nearly 10k. it was called "bday drabble" in my drafts. isn't it ironic how my writer's block blissfully took off into the horizon the second i don't Need (n quite frankly! don't have the time at all! i'm neglecting a french grammar zoom class and 87 pages of glossary as we speak!) to write anymore???

It’s Louis’ birthday soon, and Harry’s spent the last couple of weeks distinctly trying his very best not to panic about it.

Look, he’s going to be completely honest: he’s never celebrated a birthday before. Not his own and not anyone else’s. Like, of course he knows the basics of the idea—you give gifts, you eat cake, you make the person in question feel appreciated and seen for a day. It’s not precisely rocket science, really.

But the thing is, to Harry, it may as well be—it’s so foreign to him to engage in this sort of thing that it’s, quite frankly, embarrassing. It’s really, really embarrassing that stuff like this is scary and stressful to him. He’s worked on Earth for _years_ —at birthdays, even, so like, he’d say he has a pretty good idea of what acts and factors will make a birthday a bad one, he knows more or less exactly what to avoid—and yet, he’s breaking out in cold sweats twice a day thinking about this. It’s stupid that he seemingly hasn’t learned enough. It’s terrible that he’s this painfully fucking insecure.

But, god. _God_. What gift could he possibly get Louis?

It’s been nagging at the back of his mind for _weeks_ now. What does Louis want? What material thing, that Harry can offer, would make Louis feel adequately satisfied, happy _and_ seen? What is personal enough, valuable enough?

Louis is so much better at these things. He leaves little pots of roses and neat flower crowns around Harry’s dorm room all the time; he’s made him bracelets and pendant necklaces ever since the one time Harry told him he kind of likes the way it looks. Giving things away is like breathing, it’s so casually sweet in a way Harry still just barely knows how to pull off. Harry still has so much to learn when it comes to conjuring happiness in others.

(Fucking Eris.)

Now, don’t get him wrong; it’s not that Harry doesn’t try to spoil Louis every chance he gets. Bringing Louis study snacks in the library is more or less everyday routine by now, as are their dinner dates he treats him to at least once a week. He’s also taken to baking, every once in a while—he tried it with Louis’ sisters once, and it’s strangely calming for his nerves, and besides, Louis loves sweets. Harry makes him banana bread and raspberry muffins quite often.

God, are all the things he gives Louis really just food? What is _wrong_ with him?

Harry has a strong, overwhelming urge to rip half his hair out. He only refrains because he knows he’d regret it instantly afterwards.

Well, then. Regardless, a birthday typically requires more than just a cupcake; Harry needs a good gift. A heartfelt, good gift revealing just how well Harry knows Louis and how much he loves him at once. Because he does—he loves Louis so much his body aches with it. And that’s where he just fails. How could he possibly find something good enough? How could he, how could _Harry_ , possibly give Louis the birthday he deserves? Harry, who wouldn’t be comfortable or confident doing this for _anyone_ , and Louis, who deserves every single good thing anyone could ever give?

He just wants to make Louis happy. That’s all Harry ever wants. Making your boyfriend happy shouldn’t be this much of a psychological hardship—for the probably thousandth time, Harry thinks that, yeah. Louis probably deserves better than him, actually. That’s what it comes down to.

He does, but Harry will stop at nothing to try his very best to be deserving.

If only he had someone to ask about these things. Someone to give valuable input. A level-headed, smart person who for sure knows what they’re talking about—perhaps someone who does this for a living, even. A certified expert on all things love.

Hmm.

~

“ _Niall_!” Harry greets the cupid, warmth and enthusiasm screwed up to a max the minute he enters the Roman chapel. “How are you?”

Niall, chilling on a large, white sofa with his lyre—Harry almost quips something like _shouldn’t cupids have harps?_ because save for that little detail, he looks overwhelmingly stereotypical right now—instantly stands up to greet him with a crushing hug.

“Harry!” he exclaims, just as gleefully. “I was wondering when you’d drop by.”

Harry stops a little in his tracks at that as Niall releases him to get a proper look. Judging by the knowing perk of Niall’s mouth, the spirit probably looks a little too much like a deer caught in headlights.

“Have you? Why?”

“It’s December,” Niall says as if that explains anything at all. Harry quirks an eyebrow.

“Um. Yeah?”

Niall gestures for them to go sit down, and Harry follows suit onto the lavish sofa. It’s endlessly soft and comfortable—the pristine white of it stresses him out a little as Niall reaches over the armrest he’s pressed against to fish up a bottle of red wine and two glasses out of seemingly nowhere. Okay, then. It’s going to be that sort of conversation, is it?

“So. Ask away,” he says as he uncaps the cork bottle.

“Um,” Harry says again. “What is it exactly you think I want to know?”

Niall pours a generous amount of wine into one of the glasses and hands it over to Harry with a small smile.

“You want to know what to do for Louis on his birthday.”

It’s not even remotely a question—and, honestly, Harry should’ve known Niall already knew. Niall always fucking knows.

“Well. Yeah.” Harry takes a sip of his wine to buy him some time. It’s really good wine; the romans always did have the best stuff in that category. “It’s only a week left now, and, like, I’ve been trying to figure out what to get him but I’m blanking. I’ve just—I’ve never done this before. I’m not good at giving gifts like he is.”

“How do you know you’re not good at giving gifts if you’ve never done it before?”

“It’s not that I _know_ , it’s just—I’m scared of getting it wrong.”

Niall nods in small motions, tilting his head a little to the side.

“Those are different things; remember that. Just start easy. What does Louis like?” he asks, and Harry sighs.

“Lots of things! That’s not really the problem, it’s—it’s that I can’t, like, _give_ him anything he likes. Giving him anything nature-related would be stupid. He has all of that himself, already, and could grow anything in a heartbeat if he wanted to, like, I have nothing to _offer_ there—he likes books, but what book could I possibly give him that would be good and personal enough? And he collects lots of little trinkets and stones and stuff, but they’re so small and too casual for the occasion, and they’re always so randomly picked out that I don’t know what he’d actually find valuable and not. And with music, it’s like, I guess I could get him some sort of instrument, but he’s never spoken about wanting anything in particular, so like, I can’t just buy him something and hope he wants to maybe start learning it, can I?”

Slowly realizing he’s rambling, he stops himself there, settling for just giving Niall a pleading look which he hopes says enough about just how lost he’s feeling.

Niall, however, doesn’t at all seem to think this situation is as serious as Harry thinks it is. Instead of any signs of sympathy or compassion, Niall just shakes his head, clearly amused.

“Oh, Harry,” he sighs. “I’m so terribly fond of you.”

Harry’s brow furrows lightly.

“I—yeah, likewise, but are you not seeing my dilemma?”

Niall is quiet for a couple of seconds, and then he puts down his wine glass.

“Look,” he says, and the way he looks at Harry now is calm, sincere. “I get that you’re nervous, but trust me on this—Louis will love _whatever_ you give him. Besides, love and appreciation don’t have to be explicitly expressed through objects. Doing something nice for him will also count as a gift; an evening for only the two of you can be just as precious as any little present. Take care of him a bit.”

“I’m always trying to take care of him,” Harry murmurs.

“I know. And he loves it, doesn’t he?”

That does manage to lure out a small warmth in Harry’s chest, nipping at the corners of his mouth. Yeah, he does. He likes to complain a lot of the time, but Harry always notices the flush setting high on his cheeks and the very tips of his ears, the small smiles when he thinks he’s not being observed—it’s endlessly sweet.

“You’re getting away with this right now because you’re with me and it fills me with a sense of purpose, but I feel like I should tell you that anyone else would probably find the cheesy look you just got on your face repulsive.”

With that, Niall pulls Harry back to the situation at hand, and Harry scowls a little.

“Whatever. So, like, a dinner, then?” he asks, already scanning through possible scenarios. He could cook, maybe, some of Louis’ favorite things, arrange it somewhere nice and cozy and secluded. Since food is apparently all Harry is good for, anyway, he might as well take it and run with it.

“Yeah. A dinner’s always a safe card. It’s also easy to adjust it into something that proves that you know what he likes.”

Nodding slowly, Harry’s chest eases up a little. That could actually work; at least as a part of it. Maybe, with the right dinner setup, the physical gift doesn’t have to be quite as fulfilled; they could complement each other. Take some of the pressure off.

But then again—Louis deserves perfect. He deserves a flawless gift _and_ a flawless dinner. He doesn’t deserve Harry trying to lower any standards to feel better about his own inability.

He groans miserably. Niall pats his shoulder delicately.

“There, there,” he says. It helps maybe three percent.

“I just want him to have the birthday he deserves,” Harry laments hopelessly. “He’s always so good and sweet and tries so hard in everything he does and he’s _literally_ been through hell, Niall. He deserves the best day of his whole life and I need to find a way I can give him exactly that.”

“It certainly sounds like you’re placing healthy and reasonable demands on yourself.”

“It needs to be _good_ , Niall!”

“And it will be! _You_ need to be kinder to yourself about this. Louis will love what you decide to do for him, simply because you’re the one doing it.”

“But it’s—it’s not just that.” _It’s that I worry sometimes, Niall. I worry Louis is way better for me than I am for him, and I worry that I can’t give Louis everything he should be given, things another creature might be able to give him. I worry because being kind and gentle is just second nature to Louis and I still have to think so much about everything I do because even though it feels right to be loving I’m not_ used _to being loving and it makes me insecure, and, yeah, loving Louis is like breathing, but showing him how much I love him should be like breathing, too. And sometimes, it’s just not. Sometimes, I just end up tangling myself up in knots because romance and tenderness is so new to me in a way it’s not to him._

Harry can’t say it out loud, but the slow, small crinkle between Niall’s eyebrows tells him that maybe the cupid can tell what his real problem is. Insecurity is always so painfully easy to read when you work with emotion, after all.

“Harry. I need you to really listen to what I’m saying next, okay?”

Harry nods obligingly. Niall looks right at him, so earnest in the way Niall always is.

“You and Louis are meant for each other,” he says, slowly, emphatically, carefully. Yeah, Harry thinks sullenly, Niall can definitely tell. “That’s a mutual thing. While it’s nice and humbling to your character that you have insecurities, they really aren’t necessary here. Louis knows what he deserves, and he’s choosing to be with you just as much as you’re choosing to be with him. Or do you think Louis would keep quiet if he felt inadequately treated?”

“No,” Harry mumbles. His gaze flickers down, a little too uncomfortable, but Niall crouches down to persistently catch it again.

“No,” he confirms. “I understand that everything about this relationship is a big deal to you. I wouldn’t expect anything less from someone with your, uh. History. But if you go around stressing yourself half to death about every little milestone, how are you supposed to enjoy them?”

God. Harry sucks a tentative lower lip between his teeth, pondering and breathing and trying so, so hard to just let Niall’s words calm him like they should. He’s right, Harry knows this, when it comes down to it Harry knows this. It’s just awfully easy to forget, all the time.

“Okay,” He mutters at last. “I see what you mean.”

Niall gives him an encouraging smile. “Good. And, you know, if this keeps gnawing at you, there _is_ something you can do besides running to me. Something even more efficient, most likely.”

Harry quirks a questioning eyebrow.

“Talk to Louis, Harry. Communicate. He’ll put you at peace better than I ever could, you know.”

It’s such an obvious thing that Harry feels his neck flush a little at the prospect of it having to be explained to him. Of course he should always talk to Louis—usually he _does_ , whenever something bothers him, and usually it works out well eventually. Harry’s certainly not afraid of arguing with Louis, so why isn’t he trying to express any of _this_ to him? 

(Because it’s silly, is why. Harry’s anxiety is silly and stupid and admitting out loud to Louis how bad he is at all of this is _not_ going to do any favors for his pride at all. Besides, what if Harry bringing attention to it sort of gets Louis thinking about it and noticing it more often? What if he starts feeling annoyance? What if he decides it’s not worth the trouble? Harry may feel like he’s known and loved Louis forever but it still stands that everything about this is so _new_.)

When Niall eventually realizes he’s not going to get a reply out of the spirit, he throws an arm around his shoulder instead and squeezes tight. He redirects some attention to his glass of wine and takes a long sip.

“Don’t worry, H. Everything will work out just fine,” he says with finality. “Don’t get yourself too worked up to have a good time with him, okay?”

“Okay. Yeah.” Harry breathes a couple times. _Maybe_ he can do this. “Okay.”

~

_Don’t get yourself too worked up_ , Niall had said. Now, two days later, Harry’s sort of starting to realize just how much he physically can’t follow that advice.

He’s on his way to Eleanor’s place—she lives in a shared apartment, so she has a full kitchen. It would probably still be a bit of a stretch to call them friends, but Harry crashes her kitchen to bake Louis things quite regularly, and Eleanor scowls but lets him. It’s a nice arrangement.

He doesn’t even knock when he reaches her door, just throws it open and stalks in to locate her—one of her roommates currently lounging in the living room jumps a little and watches him with wary eyes when he comes in.

(Eleanor’s roommates are very visibly still quite intimidated by him; they never speak to him and like to keep their kitchen visits short and as few as possible when he’s there. Harry must say it’s quite impressive that some people manage to be scared of him even after walking in on him carefully frosting heart-shaped cupcakes, but each to their own. It’s quite entertaining, actually, so Harry makes no attempts to sooth their worries.)

“Eleanor?” he calls out, aiming for the kitchen first.

He does find her there, nursing a cup of green tea. She looks up with an extremely poorly concealed eyeroll, fixing him with a tired look.

“Would it hurt you to knock and wait for someone to let you in like a normal person for once?”

Harry doesn’t dignify the question with more than a matching eyeroll back at her. He has more important things to discuss.

“Do you think you could get me and Louis into the astronomy wing on Sunday night?” he asks, cutting to the chase efficiently.

Eleanor’s eyes narrow a little in suspicion. “What are you planning to do there?”

“Trash the place, obviously. Just completely tear it to pieces. Set it on fire,” Harry deadpans, swooping down in the chair opposite her. He studies his nails nonchalantly as he puts his feet up on the chair next to him, ignoring Eleanor’s low scoffing about manners.

“You’re so funny,” she replies just as flatly.

Harry sighs, meeting her eyes defiantly. “I want to do something nice for Louis’ birthday, is all. It’d be a good place for a dinner. He likes to see the sky, but it’s too cold to sit outside.”

It takes Eleanor a couple of pensive seconds, but at last, she seems to decide that it’s an acceptable excuse for wanting her help.

“Yeah,” she allows. “Sure. I’ll help. But only because the idea of you having any sense of romance is still super foreign to me and I want to see if you’re able to give Louis what he deserves.”

“Excuse me? I have _so_ much sense of romance.” Harry clutches his heart, maybe a tad dramatically, but it _is_ an insult to his character that Eleanor would even have the slightest doubt that Harry isn’t the single most aware person in the world of just how much goodness Louis deserves. Like this awareness isn’t what’s been single-handedly keeping him up at night and hindering any purchase of a birthday present these past days.

It does manage to lure a small smile out of Eleanor. “Sure.”

“It _is_ sure. You’ll see. Also, I’m going to need to borrow your kitchen before because I’m making both dinner and dessert. Maybe appetizers, too.”

“As if you’d listen if I said no, anyway.” With that, Eleanor stands to put away her teacup in the sink. Harry’s just about to make a move to leave again, when she turns around again with a “oh, yeah! I was meant to ask you something.”

Harry quirks an eyebrow. “Ask away.”

“Are you going to the Underworld at any point this week?”

“Um, yeah. I’m stopping by on Saturday to see Nemesis.”

“Great! Could you visit Techne’s shop for me when you’re there? She has this pair of binoculars for stargazing that my mother really wants. If you get it for me, you can keep them for your date.”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

Eleanor flashes him a grin. “Great! I’ll just get you something to trade in for them.”

She skips away to her room and comes back seconds later with a gold-framed book of star maps. Harry guesses it’s probably painted by her mother; it’s delicate and colorful, each brush stroke so full of love and light that it hurts a little to look at. 

Maybe he could find something for Louis at the antique store, too. He’s never been there himself, but it’s known as the very best one in all of the Greek. A ping of want vibrates through Harry at the thought—how much of a relief would it be? To wander in and just stumble upon the gifts of all gifts. Finally make peace with his insolent fucking nerves and concentrate on enjoying time with Louis to the fullest.

Then again, what does he have to trade for anything in a store like that? Everything he previously owned that could’ve been valuable to Techne isn’t his anymore. That sort of came along with the whole leaving Tartaros thing.

When he leaves Eleanor’s, his heart is still a little prickly.

~

Techne—the goddess of crafted art and skill—owns an antique store in the Underworld, just right on the outskirts of Hades’ abode. She’s a collector of all things beautiful, all things story-telling, precious, skillful, creative—the artistic elite of objects resides with her in her dim, rich wooden temple. Paintings from goddesses, muses, ancient princesses; instruments from the Titan’s age; sculptures saved from the old European capitals, preserved forever in a way humans never could. She owns Achilles’ shield, and Euterpe’s flute, and Sappho’s burned poetry. Few collections in all the worlds can compare to hers.

She chose to take root in the Underworld solely to already underline the value of her objects—many creatures, even among Olympian gods and goddesses, avoid the Underworld if they can. To enter her boutique, you need to deliberately make that trip. You need to want to make a little effort—so much that you’re willing to toe the border to Hades’ doorstep.

Unless you already live in the Underworld, that is. Unless you’ve lived in Tartaros, and nothing about Hades’ quarters could possibly strike fear in you. Like Harry. Then that particular aspect isn’t a problem.

Which leads to the second little catch. None of the items in Techne’s store can be bought with money. They can only be traded for other, just as valuable, goods—the kind of things few creatures in the Underworld possess. Harry certainly doesn’t.

A little, soft bell jingles over his head as he steps inside the temple. It’s a bit of orderly chaos in there; the aisles are thin and quirked because of how many things are squeezing to fit in the spaces. Everything’s tinted in a sort of warm, golden, earthy glow—dim, but settling.

Techne herself stands by a bookshelf against the wall, admiring her collection of old, dusty, leather-framed literature. When she hears the sound of a customer, she turns elegantly. An eyebrow on her beautiful face quirks when she sees who it is.

“Harry,” she greets him. “How lovely to meet you.”

Harry smiles crookedly. “Likewise.”

“Are you on the lookout for anything in particular?”

“Just running an errand for Ouriana, I suppose. I was told to ask for a pair of special binoculars used for stargazing?”

“Ah.” Techne nods immediately, taking off further back into the store. “Stay right there.”

She goes to fetch the item, and Harry’s left to wait. He holds the book of star maps under his arm, and slowly lets his gaze wander a bit. It skips across paintings, and adorned chairs, and silver swords, and marble statues looking so soft to the touch Harry’s fingertips tickle just from looking.

Then, his eyes catch on something propped up against the wall in the very far back. Frowning the slightest, he moves closer.

It’s a piano. It looks old, but small and endearing in an alluring way. Harry has to look closer.

The goodbye on his tongue completely forgotten, he rounds the counter without even asking Techne if he can, walking up to the instrument on light feet.

It’s small, way smaller than an average piano, delicate, almost—the dark, polished wood is a bit faded in its edges and the keys looks worn in a gentle, personal way. Small, golden floral patterns adorn the panels and music rack in a humbly beautiful way. Harry’s mind slowly picks up speed.

Louis hasn’t mentioned wanting a new instrument, but Harry knows for a fact he does play the piano. He also knows Louis doesn’t have one here—most pianos are too big and bulky to fit in a shared dorm room, anyway. But this one, this could—this could work, couldn’t it?

It looks so wonderfully _Louis_ that Harry can already picture it; future scenarios of afternoons in a shared apartment they don’t yet have but may look into finding one day, Harry in an armchair reading and Louis sitting right by this piano with a cup of tea resting on top of it, harmoniously, domestically existing together. Louis teaching Harry small, twinkling tunes, lingering fingertips on the back of hands, taunting laughter when Harry gets it wrong and encouraging pecks when he gets it right.

God. God, it’s so nice. It would be _so nice_.

Techne’s voice brings him out of his daydreams.

“See anything you like there?”

Yeah, Harry thinks, yeah, you could say that.

“What’s the piano worth?” he asks, still not turning back to her in favor of letting his fingers run over the keys.

“Ah. That used to be my own, actually. My first piano. Served me kindly for centuries.” Techne comes up to stand beside him while she speaks. “It’s very old and worn by now—it needs a good restoring before it can be used, but it’s beautiful, isn’t it? Do you play?”

“No,” Harry shakes his head. “But my boyfriend does. It’s, uh, it’s his birthday soon, so.”

“ _Louis_ would have this piano?”

The slightly breathless quality to her reply, combined with the fact that she knows Louis’ name takes Harry aback a bit—enough to finally take his gaze off the piano and look at her. She looks a little dazed, and then Harry remembers, yeah. People know who Louis is now. Of course they do, especially in Greek territories.

“Um, yeah,” he replies at last. “I mean, if I can afford it, that is. I don’t have much to trade you for.”

Techne ponders this in silence for a few seconds. Her gaze moves pensively to the piano, to Harry, to look off into the distance—and then she sighs with finality.

“You know what? To have an antique of mine belong to the boy who saved the worlds feels plenty precious to me. Imagine the selling point of such a thing.” She smirks and quirks her eyebrows at him swiftly. “I haven’t used it in years, and it’d be a bit of hassle for me to sell, anyway, with the shape it’s in. So… If you have a way to restore that piano on your own, it’s yours to take.”

The sharp inhale Harry does is only slightly embarrassing, but _god_ —Techne’s _giving_ it to him? She’s—okay, Harry can find a way to restore that piano, right? Someone at the university must be able to help with that—Camron could, probably, or he’d at the very least know someone who can. Camron would undoubtedly help if Harry told him it was for Louis.

He can make it work. He _will_ make it work.

“Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank you so much.”

When he, a few minutes later, dissolves into the air with the piano and the binoculars in tow, he feels a shot of genuine, jittery excitement. It’s not lost after all, is it? Is Harry really getting to have this? He can’t wait to show Louis the piano. It’s going to be great, and Harry’s _finally_ unfucked, fully able to breathe.

~

He’s fucked again. It’s three hours until Louis’ meeting him in the astronomy wing, and Harry’s fucked.

He goes through the events leading up to his demise. They go like so:

Harry takes Camron to see the piano the very same evening he returns from the Underworld.

(Camron is evidently a bit stunned to find Harry and a slightly wrecked piano in the doorstep of the woodwork studio after hours like he does, but catches himself quickly. They have a quite comfortable relation towards each other, and Harry would like to think Camron isn’t _actually_ scared of him anymore. He would admittedly be a bit more justified than, say, Eleanor’s jumpy roommates, if he were, but Harry hopes he isn’t.)

“Do you think this could be fixed?” Harry asks, cutting to the chase efficiently.

Camron’s mouth purses in contemplation as he analyses it.

“Yeah,” he says at last. “Yeah, it should. I couldn’t do it, though, especially not on my own. But I have some friends who are really into the making of instruments who I could ask. Why?”

“It’s Louis’ birthday gift.” Harry takes comfort in the way Camron immediately seems to perk up a little. “I got it for free from Techne—you know about Techne, yeah? Yeah. She gave it to me for free on the condition that I have to find a way to restore it without her. How—how long do you think it’d need?”

“Difficult to say.” Camron presses down on a key and winces at the dull, slightly strangled sound it gives off. “A couple of days, probably.”

“Do you reckon before Sunday?”

“I’ll take my friends to see it, yeah? I’ll get back to you tomorrow.”

Harry accepts, and thanks Camron profusely, and holds onto the flickers of hope still daring to course through his body.

Camron stays true to his word—next afternoon, he finds Harry to tell him that his friends do, in fact, think they should be able to fix it; well before Sunday, even, if they get a move on. Harry should expect it around Friday. Harry’s in a spectacular mood the rest of that whole day to the point where Louis tilts his head a bit and watches him curiously from time to time over their midnight-study-session snacks (Harry’s maybe 20% there for studying and 80% there coax Louis into make-out sessions in an empty, dimly lit library).

(“You seem cheery today.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah. Something up?”

“Does something have to be up for me to be in a good mood?”

“Maybe.”

Shrug. “Maybe I just really like your company. Am I not allowed to be cheery?”

“Of course you are.” Louis’ eyes soften with so much affection that Harry nearly works up a blush. “Love it when you’re all smiley. You look like roses.”)

Things are okay for the coming couple of days. Harry prepares his menu (nothing flashy; just Louis’ favorites) and the visuals for the astronomy wing and makes a deal with Stan to cryptically tell Louis to take a trip there on Sunday evening, 8pm sharp.

By Sunday morning, the piano still isn’t ready. When Harry inquires Camron ever so kindly about this aspect, Camron tells him it’s been way harder to find the correct tools than expected, given the age and origin of the piano. They think they have it now, though; it should be done by tonight. Harry has no choice but to believe him.

He doesn’t see Louis all Sunday—mainly, he crashes Eleanor’s kitchen again, making and preparing the oven-made salmon filets, and the raspberry pound cake for dessert. It all goes more smoothly than he could ever wish for; he doesn’t fuck anything about the food up at all, actually, and the relief is beyond compelling.

One hour— _one hour_ —before showtime, Camron finds him in the astronomy wing setting up. Harry can immediately tell on his flushed face and anxious frown that he comes bearing bad news, and Harry’s stomach drops with such force he should break through the floorboards.

“Please tell me you’re not about to tell me what I think you’re about to tell me,” he says, just barely managing to keep his voice steady.

Camron gulps, and shakes his head apologetically.

“Harry, I’m so sorry, I—the piano won’t be done tonight. I’m so sorry. We really thought we had it, like, we restringed the whole thing and we had these super nice strings, too, we really thought they would work, but—then one of my friends tried it out when we were done and it all just came undone. Like, the keys just snapped one by one, there was nothing we could do. Our theory now is that this piano needs these particular, old and extra fine strings only available in Greek territory. It has to be that, and it makes the most sense, too.”

Harry feels nauseous.

“Okay. Okay, okay, okay, okay—” he breathes deeply, once, twice, closing his eyes. This is fine. This is _fine_ , he can— _this is fine_. “I get it, Camron, don’t apologize. I’ll just—I’ll get those strings for you, yeah? His present will just have to be… Late.”

He can barely keep it together as he says it—fuck, he wanted the piano now. He needed it to be done _now_ , it was supposed to be what this whole evening led up to, and Louis would love it, and now Harry has _nothing again_ —

After that, he races the whole way back to Eleanor’s apartment.

“ _Eleanor_!” he yells when he bursts the door open. Eleanor, sitting in the living room with yet another cup of tea, jumps so much some of the hot liquid spills out over her hand.

“For the love of _Zeus_ , Harry!” she exclaims sharply. “You have to stop doing this to me or I’ll get a restraining order.”

Harry doesn’t have time for any of it.

“Eleanor,” he repeats, not acknowledging her exasperation at all. “Eleanor, disaster has struck. Do you know about any particularly fine kind of piano strings only available in the Greek? That would likely fit Techne’s oldest instrument?”

“I—yeah, probably. I could ask anyone of my aunts and they’d know.”

“Could you fix them for me?”

“I’m going to Olympus on Tuesday.”

“Is that a yes?”

Eleanor rolls her eyes. “ _Yes_. Please calm down, Harry, it’s not the end of the world.”

Harry has to leave, or he’ll snap something hurtful, so he settles for a glower and a “thank you” through his teeth, and then he leaves again.

So, yeah. This is where he’s at now, storming away from Eleanor’s apartment. Fucked. He’s fucked.

He needs air—he needs to think, for a second, in peace he needs to—fuck, he just needs a second alone. His feet walk on their own accord, winter wonderland landscape passing him by in a haze.

He ends up behind the main building. He always does, somehow; it’s always calm. Few other students go there, because Harry and his group of then-friends laid claim on it pretty quickly, and no one dared to go too near them. It’s sort of just stuck like that, Harry supposes—besides, it’s winter now, anyway. Few creatures are outside at all these days.

The air is cold and crisp in his lungs and he paces slowly, restlessly for a while. Louis won’t care, he tries to tell himself. Louis won’t care if his birthday present is a few days late. He really won’t. He won’t.

He _won’t_ , but Harry didn’t want to keep him waiting, anyway. 

It’s just going to—it’s going to feel wrong, not to have anything to give him at all. Sure, the dinner is lovely, and sure, the location is beautiful, and sure, Louis will appreciate it, but—Harry’s been stressing about a fucking gift for so long, and now he’s not even going to give it like he wanted to give it.

Inhaling and exhaling a couple of more times, he stops abruptly by the wall. His eyes feel, pathetically enough, a little wet, the stress of this last week just sort of dawning on him all too much and all too at once. He turns around, and then he slides down it a bit, squatting dejectedly against the cold surface.

In his peripheral, he catches something green on the ground. He turns his head a bit.

In a small patch of just barely snow-covered grass, right against the brick wall, stands a small group of snowdrops. Close to each other, as if huddling for warmth, they stand in contrast to the rusty red building and the quiet lifelessness of the ground beneath them. Their white petals hang downwards, humbly, shyly.

Harry looks, and looks.

~

When Louis finally enters the astronomy room, Harry’s been practically vibrating with anxiety for way too long to be healthy, but everything’s prepared to perfection. The room is orchestrated with the uttermost care—the picnic blanket spread out on the floor doesn’t have a single crease, the bottle of rosé and the complementing glasses are placed in perfect relation to the first plates of food opposite each other. The panorama windows and glass ceiling gently allow the starry December sky and the always so kind moon to bathe them in white, comforting light. There are candles—god, so many candles, may neither of them knock one down, _please_ —and there’s a vase with a single red rose in the middle of the blanket. Harry’s thought of _everything_.

He’s back to pacing, clock just having struck eight, flexing his fingers a little to shake some life into them. He’s awfully nervous, and he wishes he weren’t.

But then, there’s a small knock on the door, and then the handle is pushed down, and then Louis steps in on light, bare feet (winter shoes dangling in one hand) and with a sparkly, warm gaze, and Harry instantly feels more grounded than he has all week.

Louis’ eyes fall on Harry first—before the stars, before the candles, before the dinner set-up. He sees Harry first, lingers a little, small but growing smile on his pink mouth, and god, he’s so safe. Three seconds in his presence, and the muscles in Harry’s shoulders let loose like they’ve been holding their breath.

“Hey, you,” Louis says, gently and crisply like chocolate and wind chimes. Harry’s dimples can’t help but tease his cheeks a bit. It feels really good to smile.

“Hey. Happy birthday.”

“Why, thank you.”

Then, the fairy’s eyes catch on something behind Harry—the blanket set-up, perhaps—and his eyes start to wander around the rest of the room. He takes it all in gradually, from side to side, from floor to ceiling. Harry’s toes move slightly inwards as he waits for the reaction, ears heating a little with anticipation. He feels oddly exposed—it’s so awfully evident just how much time he’s put into this, and while he’s been scared all week of Louis not thinking he’s done enough, the prospect of Louis thinking he’s done too _much_ is just as likely to make him fling himself out one of these windows.

But when Louis speaks, he doesn’t sound put off at all.

“This is— _Harry_.” He says his name like it’s synonymous with the marvelous, the breathtaking, the lovable. Harry’s toes go numb and come back to life about three times in the span of a microsecond.

“Do you like it?” he asks, trying to come off casual despite feeling his heartbeat in his fingertips.

Louis seems—Harry appears to have stunned him into a loss for words. Oh, god. Harry _did that_. Harry managed that.

“Harry,” he repeats, all wide-eyed and small and lovely. “How—how did you do this?”

Harry shrugs a shoulder, giving him a crooked smile. “Eleanor sort of broke me in here. Just wanted to celebrate you properly before you go to the Forest—I thought you’d like a picnic under the stars, even if it’s the middle of winter.”

It takes Louis all but three seconds of wordless staring at Harry, before he’s striding right up to him and pulling him down for a kiss that nearly knocks the air right out of Harry’s lungs. Harry gasps in surprise but his hands find Louis’ waist soon enough, fitting like they belong, thumbing on the soft curve through the cotton fabric of his moss green sweater.

“You,” Louis says against Harry’s lips, a warm taste of summer on the tip of Harry’s tongue, “are my _favorite_ person.”

Harry’s heart does a little flip in his chest and he can’t help the large grin slowly spreading across his entire face. He has about a thousand lovely, affectionate, cheesy things to say in response.

“I’ll tell your family you said that,” he ends up going with, because he has to.

It’s worth seeing the slightly exasperated eyeroll Louis makes, the way he purses his mouth just the littlest bit—he’s trying not to grin.

“Don’t ruin this. I’m feeling terribly in love with you right now and it would be a shame to have to kill you.”

 _Love, love, love_. The word still makes all of Harry’s insides a pool of mush and warmth. He’ll likely never truly get used to it, but he never wants to stop hearing it for the rest of his life.

“Maybe that’s my birthday gift to you,” he hums. “You’ll finally get to end me.”

“It won’t be nearly as fun if you plan it out beforehand, you know.”

“Fine. Win an argument, then, maybe.”

“You give me that all the time without even meaning to.”

“ _Lies_.”

Louis presses another light kiss onto Harry’s pout, and another one, and another one. He smells like honey. It’s a little dizzying.

“Feel like I’ve barely seen you all week,” he mumbles—there’s no resentment in it, just a light observation, but Harry feels a little guilty, anyway. It’s true; apart from their study session, they’ve only seen each other briefly in hallways or overlapping lunches. “Is all this why, then?”

“Kind of. Yeah. I’ve been a bit neurotic about it,” Harry confesses, tentative heat on his neck. “Think I’ve driven Eleanor halfway to insanity.”

It pulls a soft chuckle and a gleeful gaze from Louis that warms Harry’s stomach.

“She hasn’t mentioned, actually. That makes me weirdly proud of her.”

Harry hums appreciatively. “That was nice of her, I suppose. But it’s not my fault she has an oven, so she doesn’t really have the right to complain, anyway.”

“Well, it’s not really her fault, either, is it?”

“Did she not choose to live in an apartment with an oven?”

It gets him an amused eyeroll, but Louis doesn’t push the subject further than that. Instead, his gaze sets behind Harry’s body.

“Is that salmon?” he asks next, peering at the blanket set-up. A grin starts to spread on his face. 

“It is, yeah! I cooked,” Harry beams back, not even trying to tone down his pride. He did nail the food, after all, and even if he still gets a flash of cold sweats when he thinks about Louis’ gift— _actual_ gift—he’s endlessly relieved that everything else about this seems to go well. “There’s dessert, too, later.”

“I never know with you, but I hope the dessert you’re referring to is also in fact a food.”

Harry quirks an eyebrow. “Guess you’ll have to see.”

“You know better than to joke with me about sweets.”

“One kind of dessert doesn’t have to exclude the other.”

Louis contemplates this for a beat, and then nods once, emphatically.

“Yeah. That sounds like a good deal,” he decides. A small strand of hair is tugged down in front of his eyes, and Harry has to lean in and brush it away. His body moves on his own accord about these things by now—and regardless, Louis’ cheeks always go a little, little pink with it.

They both start moving towards the blanket to sit down, Louis holding onto Harry’s pinky finger lightly until he has to let go because they sit a little too far apart.

As it turns out, Louis loves the food. He eats it like it tastes equivalent to the worth of gold, savoring every bite pointedly and genuinely (and quite arousingly, if Harry says so himself—the way his head tips back and his eyes close does decidedly not go unnoticed by him). He compliments Harry until Harry feels giddy with it, and conversation flows so nicely and smoothly and lively in the way it always just does with the two of them. By the time Harry reveals the cake and starts serving them a generous piece each, his stomach’s hurting a little with laughter and Louis’ cheeks are flushed and his smile is so, so wide.

“You’re setting the stakes impossibly high here,” he remarks as he takes the first bite of it. “At this rate I’ll be expecting my present to be, like, a golden God’s throne.”

Harry’s spine tenses a little at the reminder—just for a second, and he tries to brush it off with a nervous laugh, but judging by the quick little narrow of Louis’ eyes, he definitely caught it. He tilts his head curiously.

“Everything good there, babe?”

“Everything’s fine,” Harry fires back way too quickly and a tad too intensely. “Why wouldn’t it be fine? Is something about this not fine?”

“Everything’s perfect, Harry.” Louis’ gaze gets something slightly careful in it. God. Harry definitely didn’t handle that all too smoothly.

“Okay. Good.”

“Good,” Louis parrots.

It’s quiet for a second. Harry changes his mind about twenty times during it—does he bring up the gift now? He sort of has to, right? Louis kind of led them there. Maybe it’d be weird to lead them back onto this later. Maybe if he does this now, he can go through the humiliation of it all and then they can just quietly keep eating this raspberry cake as Harry licks his wounds.

“Do you…” Louis starts again, before Harry gets there. “Did you not get me anything, or? Because this is more than enough, you know. I won’t be mad.”

Harry can’t help the defensive glare it lures out. “Of course I got you something! Who do you take me for? Why would you think I didn’t?”

“Because you’re being a little weird.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t ‘okay’ me!”

“My god, just spit it out, then!”

“Spit what out?”

“Whatever it is that’s suddenly making you so high-strung!”

“ _Fine_!” Harry tries to breathe in, but his lungs can’t quite fill. “Fine.”

He breathes a couple of times more, Louis waiting patiently—defiantly, almost. Well. Now’s as good a time as any. He’s already managed to annoy Louis a bit, so he’s due for a little apology, anyway. Might as well hit two birds with one stone.

“Okay. Let’s just get it over with, then.” Another breath, and then he picks up a carefully, adequately at best wrapped present from a little paper bag he’s kept hidden behind his back. It’s small and unextraordinary, but it is a gift. He smacks it down between them as determinedly as he can without hurting it.

Louis quirks an eyebrow. “Romantic approach.”

“It’s not—” god, Harry can barely feel his face. Is this what all people feel when they’re giving stuff away? Or is this the buildup of several weeks of stressing just for his final plan to fall through that’s making itself known again? “Okay, see. I have another gift for you that you were meant to get tonight. But that got sort of—delayed. And I can’t just leave you without a present on your birthday, can I?”

“I mean. This evening really is plenty enough on its own. I wasn’t lying about that,” Louis murmurs through a small smirk. He can so obviously tell Harry’s nervous.

“Just open it, please.” Harry has to close his eyes for a few seconds to regain composure.

With his lovely little fingers, Louis starts pulling carefully at the wrap ineloquently taped together at the top. He’s taking it painfully slow, eyes fluttering up to meet Harry’s every once in a while, curious and wide and bluer than any ocean Harry’s ever wanted to sail across.

Harry has to force himself to keep looking and not hang his head in shame as Louis keeps working on the paper until it finally, humbly falls to the sides to unravel the small gift.

The crisply white snowdrop Harry picked earlier stands shyly in a small, ceramic pot filled with damp soil.

Harry has to look away. He has to. Chest tightening and face flushing with unbearable heat, he looks down on his hands. They’re a bit shaky, and he curses them. If only he could at least _look_ like this isn’t excruciating for him.

Louis doesn’t get a chance to react to it out loud before hurried words are bubbling up from Harry’s suddenly stuffy throat.

“Look, before you say anything—I know that it’s a stupid gift. It’s stupid to give you a single flower for your birthday, like, you deserve better. But, like I said, your actual present is delayed and I didn’t know what to do because I didn’t want you to go _without_ a gift tonight and then I just—there’s a small patch of these, behind the head building, and it felt. I don’t know. Significant? That they grew there, of all places. And then I thought, if you were a flower, maybe you’d be a snowdrop, because even when everything around them is cold and icy and shitty, they bloom. And there’s something really precious about that, about blooming through layers of snow—and if this one lives with you, it’ll see summer, which I thought is quite sweet. Not that you don’t already know this, I’m not going to sit here and pretend I can tell you anything about flowers you don’t already know, but—but. That’s what I thought, anyway. Fuck, I’m sorry. I love you. I love you. I’m just shitty with gifts.”

He’s been speaking to his hands the whole time, but as he trails off, he knows he needs to see what exactly Louis’ thinking—for better or worse. Slowly, tentatively, he looks up.

Louis isn’t looking back at him. He’s eyeing the small, potted flower with a sort of endearing gentleness that makes Harry’s insides wobble a bit. The tiniest, most wonderful smile just barely grazes his lips; it’s private, like it’s just him and this stupid little flower, like they share some sort of precious secret. He looks endeared and endearing and so unbearably sweet.

A small spark of hope tentatively sets alight in the bottom of Harry’s heart.

Louis doesn’t reply—just looks at the flower, looks, looks, looks, and then his eyes shift over to Harry, and his face is painted so delicately by candle flames and joy, and—

Without saying a word, he puts the flower down, crawls over the blanket, and wraps his arms around Harry’s neck in the most heartfelt hug Harry’s ever gotten.

“You’re wonderful,” he mumbles against the skin on Harry’s neck. “Harry, you’re wonderful.”

It finally shakes some life into Harry’s limbs, hands quickly finding their way to lock around Louis’ back, pressing Louis impossibly closer. His skin is warm and homely, and Harry can just barely register that he—does he like the gift? This is because Harry picked him a flower? Harry’s going to pass out alarmingly soon with all this emotional turmoil he’s been put through by now.

“So.” He swallows. “Does this mean you like the gift after all or are you, like, trying to soften the blow of your rejection?”

Louis leans back so they face each other, and rolls his eyes so hard Harry almost fears for him a bit. “ _Yeah_. I like the gift, you entire bag of dicks.”

“Hm. You could almost say I’m a tank of fuckvermin.”

“God. Shut _up_.”

Harry laughs, and it’s so nice to laugh, and it’s like Louis reached inside his chest and screwed on a tap and all of his anxiety’s just being washed, washed away. Louis doesn’t leave his lap—just settles inbetween Harry’s folded knees snugly, hands intertwined by Harry’s neck.

“Why in the world were you so nervous about this? I thought you like, killed someone in my name for a second.”

“I—I don’t know. It’s stupid.” Harry’s lower lips catches between his teeth loosely. “Like, I’ve never done this before? I’ve never celebrated a birthday. And I just wanted to get it _right_ , and then things went wrong, anyway, and I worked myself up, and I just. I just thought you deserve better than this.”

A short laugh stumbles up Louis’ throat, disbelieving to its core.

“I deserve better than _this_? I deserve better than a boy who finds a way to sit under the stars in December and cooks me my favorite food and—and understands me so well that he speaks to me through flowers? I don’t know what exactly you have in mind that would be better, Harry, but I can’t think of it.”

Liquid warmth is already working its way through Harry’s veins—Louis always knows what to say—but he just. He needs to explain this properly. If he doesn’t do it now, it’s just going to keep brewing until the next time something like this is coming up.

“It’s just—these things come so naturally to you.” He’s been sitting on these words for so long, but now that he’s finally saying them out loud, he seems to shrink a little in embarrassment with every syllable. He’s too vulnerable. “You’re so—you love so easily. It’s like you never have to think about it. And I love you, so, so much, but I’ve never done this before and I just. I don’t know what to do with it, sometimes, with all this love. I haven’t done this before.”

Something about that seems to resonate just a bit more with Louis, because he doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he sits for a few seconds, just pinning Harry with an indecipherable look, mouth pursed just a little. It’s stained from raspberries.

At last, he sighs, and then he speaks.

“Don’t you think I have worries like those, too?”

Harry just—stills. _What_?

“What do you possibly have to worry about?” His brow aches a little with how tightly it’s furrowed. “You’re the best at _all_ of this.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “You do remember I’d never gone further than a kiss with another person before I met you, yeah? And you’re quite famously more experienced than that? Do you think that’s something I was just always completely confident about?”

“But—” Harry frowns. “That doesn’t—like, that doesn’t matter to me. The fact that it’s you, and no one else, has always meant more than anything else ever could.”

“Yeah. And the fact that it’s _you_ doing these things for me is what matters to me. You get me, Harry, you always have. Even when you should be getting it wrong, you’ll get it right, because it seems somewhere in that neurotic little subconscious of yours, you’re linked to me and I to you, and no one could make me as happy as you.”

God. Harry’s eyelids flutter a little. Of _course_ he should’ve spoken to Louis about this earlier—it seems so awfully silly now, every single one of his worries. Of course Louis knows exactly what to say to make them dissolve into nothing.

“Besides,” Louis continues, so tenderly. “You show me you love me all the time. I don’t even think you know how often you do.”

That—Harry narrows his eyes skeptically. That can’t be right.

“Now you’re just saying things to make me feel better.”

The corners of Louis’ lips twitch. “You’re always touching me—not even deliberately, just because it seems to ground you. You’re like a magnet. I don’t think you know that. And you always let me use your better pillow. I know the one you use is lumpy. You remember little things I tell you—or things I don’t tell you, sometimes. I never told you my favorite berry is raspberry, but you know that it is, anyway. I told you off-handedly I liked John Keats once, and you’ve recommended me tons of romantic poetry collections since. You dog-ear the poems you think I’ll like the most, and you’ve always been right. You always— _always_ —ask me how I am, even when no one else would think to ask. You’re probably the only person who manages to dote on me without being patronizing. You let me hold you.” To emphasize, one of his hands trail up into the curls twirling down Harry’s neck, tangling fingers into them. He knows so well what soothes Harry by now. “You let me see so much of you that others don’t, and don’t think for a second that I’m not aware of how lucky I am.”

It’s—it’s just—god, Harry can’t even speak following that. It’s like he’s been sitting with a broken, faded, irrational jigsaw puzzle for the past week—perhaps longer, he thinks sullenly—and Louis just sat down, pieced it together, and took his hand to leave. Not for a second has Harry actually taken the time to consider that maybe, Louis watches Harry just like Harry watches Louis. And now, right here, with the December moon above spotlighting them, it’s standing crystal clear that, yeah. Louis does.

Harry lets his head fall to Louis’ collarbone. He feels Louis’ cheek against the crown of his head immediately upon it. _You let me hold you_.

“Why do you always know what to say?” he mumbles against soft, golden skin.

“Blessed with a rare gift, I suppose.” 

Harry hums in agreement and kisses the tip of his collarbone lightly. His cheeks burn a little in another kind of embarrassment now—the kind you get when you’ve been worried sick about something that suddenly seems like nothing at all. Louis just made every single issue Harry’s been dealing with evaporate within minutes, and he feels silly.

“I’m sorry,” he has to say. “This is your birthday celebration, not my therapy session. I won’t be like this again.”

Louis snorts softly, and Harry finally lifts his head so he can look at him again. He can see every little, endearing freckle on his face this up-close, every crease of his rosy mouth. He’s the prettiest. Harry’s boy is the prettiest in all the universes. 

“It _is_ yet another birthday gift of sorts to be able to gush about you to your face, you know. You haven’t even made fun of me a little bit.”

“Mm, not tonight. Maybe tomorrow, but for now I’m just going to soak it all up. Like a sponge.” 

A hand runs musingly through his fringe.

“You really have been proper worried about this, haven’t you?” Louis’ tone is like silk and so awfully nursing.

“Well. You deserve the best.”

“Hm.” Louis presses a little kiss to Harry’s nose, and then rests his forehead gently against his. “Good thing I seem to have it, isn’t it?”

~

(Camron and his friends finish restoring the piano on Thursday. Louis absolutely _loves_ it.

“If you _ever_ try to claim you’re bad at giving gifts again I’ll genuinely break up with you,” he threatens, eyes sparkly and voice sharp the way it is when he’s trying to tone down the vastness of his emotions through snarkiness. “ Like, I’ll leave you definitely and forever. This is—god, this is the loveliest piano I’ve ever seen.”

Harry preens under it. Everything’s fine and his nerves aren’t running.

“It just felt like it belonged with you.”

Louis’ fingers run along the keys like they’re already itching to try them.

“I’ll use it every day. This entire floor is about to want me dead.”

It’s good. It’s late, but it’s good, and Louis loves it, and Harry loves Louis. 

Delicately, before he sits to play his first tune, Louis places the small snowdrop pot on top of the piano. It’ll stand there for a long, long time.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmmMMM hope this was ok!!!!! they're just dumb boys at the end of the day :')
> 
> as always, comments and kudos make me the happiest person in the WORLD! i read everything i see everything n i fall hopelessly in love every time. i'm on tumblr @tequiladimples if u wanna talk/yell/be friends or anything else at all!!! i adore u all and every time i get a lil notif my heart warms up like a freshly baked muffin <33


	3. pov shift; harry and louis' first meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO!!! i saw that collision reached 100k hits yesterday and literally fell out of bed. so consider this lil update a big, loving, resounding thank you <3333  
> i feel like it’d be really fun to explore harry’s mindset at the beginning of this fic—just bc when i started switching more actively to his pov he was already useless and smitten with louis. i don’t know if this is as fun for yall to read as a fluff timestamp would be or smth, but i wanted to try writing it :')
> 
> \+ i'm sorry it took a while to post something new! i've had a little freakout about this fic gaining traction as of late because i'm very critical of my writing in many aspects of it. i suppose that would tend to happen if you write a fic over half a decade (how terrifying would it be if i still wrote the same way i did when i started. i was a baby then). and so my mind got a lil stuck on how so this fic purely started as a personal little passion project because i love mythology and folklore and wanted to explore writing in english, and now it's. u know. at 100k hits. it makes me a lil self-conscious, is all.  
> that being said don't get me wrong!! that's a Me Problem, and 99% of the time i'm just immensely overwhelmed and grateful and super, SUPER happy people like what i'm producing to feel anything else. i'm just being dumb <333 love u all hope u enjoy

He’s not allowed to run the halls of the dorm building, so naturally, he has to run the halls of the dorm building.

It was a spur of the moment thing, honestly. Harry was just going to go back up to his room for an uneventful evening—perhaps sneak out by himself for some nighttime air later tonight—but he bumped into Camron by the entrance, and, well. His skin’s been itching all day and he’s been feeling the pinching frustration of it growing and he needed to let some of it out, needed to give some of it away.

And, well. Camron was there, wasn’t he? Easy, vulnerable target.

So Harry’s running, wooden cane in hand, up the stairs just to be an absolute dick as Camron struggles behind him, breath ragged and distress so palpable Harry can taste it in the air, feels coated in it, feels wrapped up and swallowed whole, the only kind of comfort he can get his hands on.

He’s learned to like it—causing pain, that is. Feeling the pain of others. It wasn’t always easy like this, granted, there was a time he’d desire other things, warm and gentle things, a time before he truly and fully understood what he’s meant to do. But you can only be punished for such a thing so many times before it becomes wholly and completely not worth it. Causing other people pain is what’ll make him free of his own one day, and from there on, it’s quite easy to start associating tears and screams and grimaces with relief. Perhaps it’d be even easier if more pain disappeared with every time he did it—the difference now is so miniscule it’s barely even there—but Harry takes what he gets.

His mother’s proud of him now. His mother is proud, and one day he’ll be free from being this heavy. He has to believe he will.

He diverges from the stairs into the hall and stops in front of a door for a second, as Camron still hasn’t made it up. When he does, catching Harry waiting patiently for him, there are beads of sweat on the dwarf’s forehead. He’s gripping convulsively around the handrail, before he starts heaving himself closer.

When they’re face to face again, Camron’s nothing but pleading.

“Just—please, give it back. I just want to go home.”

Harry almost grimaces when something teeny tiny pinches in his stomach at the defeated tone of the boy’s voice—it’s unassuming like a tiny, burned out match against skin, but it’s a pinch all the same. Those things aren’t allowed.

He needs to amp this up, needs to try harder. Like he always does as soon as this happens (because it does happen, but he’ll die before anyone finds out), he tries harder. Carelessly, he puts out the little inkling, smoothens it over, tucks it away.

If he doesn’t put a name on it, he never felt it.

Instead, Harry gives Camron a tight smirk. Chuckles a little.

Then, he evaporates, and Camron can only hopelessly throw himself forward into the empty space Harry stood in seconds prior.

Harry lands on the other side of the door of whatever dorm room he’s accidentally intruded on, back against it, looking down, smile still on his face, silent laughter running through him, adrenaline swirling in his body now. There it is, he thinks, he’s back, it’s back, he can do this. He’ll do this.

Air of relief is still seeping out of his lungs when his thoughts are suddenly interrupted by a firm voice:

“What on _Earth_.”

Camron hasn’t left outside—Harry can still feel the waves of hurt through the door, the dejection, the hopelessness, it’s wrapping him up like a blanket. His body is a little, little lighter with it.

(It’s still not quite enough. It never is, but he’ll keep getting meaner and meaner to try, and that’s how it is.)

Now, though, now his attention shifts elsewhere. Someone’s spoken to him—someone with a high, crisp voice, slightly rough around the edges, ringing bells and thorny roses at once. Harry snaps his head up to see who it belongs to.

It’s a fairy—no, he realizes, it’s _the_ fairy, the fairy from a few days ago peeking around the corner to the back of the head building, all wide gaze and small frame and something bright and clean in his eyes, running winter water.

Louis, he knows. From the Norse Forest. He’s seen him with Eleanor in bypassing, but he’s never really _looked_ before, hasn’t had the chance to, hasn’t cared to.

But he’s looking now, and there’s something small stirring in his chest—it’s difficult to place. He’s such a pretty little thing, Louis; even prettier this up-close, delicate shoulders and hair like syrup and wind and a pink shade high on his cheekbones. His lips are pursed, and his brow slightly knitted, and his eyes are the bluest of blues, like he keeps a part of the sky within him. His eyelashes are so long. He still looks clean, crystal clear, everything about him is so carefully pieced together, symmetry and soft curves and golden hues.

Harry would quite like to ruffle him up a bit, he thinks.

He can’t stop the small smirk when it takes over his face, tilting his head.

“ _Hey_ ,” he says.

The fairy doesn’t look charmed—his eyes only narrow even further, so clearly skeptical, but he slowly lowers from the ceiling.

“What are you doing in my room?” he asks. A justified question, perhaps. But Harry has more pressing matters with this boy.

“I _know_ you,” he says instead, all delight and broad grin. “You’re the one who was spying on me a couple of days ago, aren’t you?”

Louis’ cheeks burn like roses. Delightful. Lovely little plaything, wouldn’t he make?

“No, I’m not.”

Laughable.

“By the back of the head building, right?” Harry approaches closely, calmly, takes pleasure in observing how Louis’ gaze flickers just the tiniest. “I would’ve invited you for a chat, but you left in such a rush. For how long did you stand there, really?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Harry continues to ignore his attempts at denial. He makes a clicking noise with his tongue and shakes his head slowly, taking a step forward. “Don’t think I could forget such a pretty face.”

“I—I’m not. I mean.” Louis blinks, and small bells of victory goes off in Harry’s head. He’s flustered. “I don’t. What?”

“You’re an adorable one.”

Louis clears his throat, swallowing visibly and setting his brow in determination. He’s very animated in his expressions—Harry bets it’s subconscious. It’d be so much fun to tear into him a little, when he makes everything so visible. Harry barely even needs his powers to read him. Everything about him is revealing and appealing.

“How did you—what were you doing out there?” Louis demands, finally.

“Oh,” Harry raises his eyebrows nonchalantly. “Just playing around a little. Having a bit of fun.”

The cane’s remained hidden behind his back this far into the conversation, and Louis seems to only notice he’s holding something now. An eyebrow twitches as he tries to observe it for a moment, and then his gaze settles on Harry again. He’s not afraid to look him in the eyes, Harry notes. His gaze doesn’t even waver a little.

That’s new. It makes Harry feel seen in a way he usually isn’t. His presence is generally more known, rather than seen. Everyone knows when he walks into a room. But people rarely look at him.

“What have you got there?” Louis asks.

The corners of Harry’s mouth pulls upwards a little more. It’s none of Louis’ business, really, but Harry’s curious, is all. He wants to see his reaction; wants to see the way his face keeps telling stories, wants to see how he keeps giving everything away.

“It’s a cane.” He holds it out for Louis to see.

And, oh, he’s not disappointed, not in the slightest—the way the boy’s eyes widen, so widely, so honestly, shielding absolutely none of the horror he’s obviously feeling as he’s putting two and two together. 

“That’s—that’s Camron’s cane. Camron needs that.”

 _Congratulations_ , Harry wants to quip, but doesn’t. Instead, he nonchalantly strokes his long fingers up and down the dark, polished wood. “I guess.”

“That’s _awful_.” Louis is full on frowning now, evidently blatantly taken back. Like he couldn’t in his wildest dreams imagine someone being cruel to another person. “Why would you do that?”

It’s complicated, Harry doesn’t say. One day it’ll free me, he doesn’t say, either. 

None of that matters in the grand scheme of things, anyway.

“Why not?” That’s what matters.

Louis’ mouth falls open. He’s appalled, Harry notes. 

“Because Camron needs that thing!” he exclaims. “The poor guy’s only got one leg, for crying out loud. Don’t you think he’s suffered enough already?”

The disapproval radiating from him doesn’t touch Harry deeper than a breeze of wind would. It’s a little impressive, that he dares speak to Harry like this, though—most creatures have enough intuition to understand the possible consequences of such a thing at this point.

“The question is rather, who decides what ‘enough suffering’ is?” Harry thinks out loud. “Is there such a thing?”

There doesn’t seem to be such a thing for him, after all—at this point, it’s only fair of him to start to wonder.

But Louis’ eyebrows are so forcefully knitted they may start growing together soon.

“ _Yes_. There is such a thing.”

And then, he cocks a hip out and puts a small but determined hand on it, leveling Harry with a kind of authoritative look Harry would see in his university professors sometimes.

“Go out there and give it back to him,” he demands.

At first, it catches Harry in a complete stand-still.

Is he—is Louis— _Louis_ —genuinely trying to tell him what to do? Does he honestly think Harry’s going to listen? Harry just stares at him for a moment, eyes him up and down to find anything faltering in his body language that would insinuate that he’s joking. But he doesn’t find anything.

This little creature thinks he has authority over _him_. Over _Harry_.

The disbelieving, taunting laughter bubbles up before he can stop it.

“Oh, honey,” he manages to tug out from his stuttering ribcage. “Who are _you_ to tell me what to do?”

It’s poetic, the slow but steady shift on Louis face, the precious, beautiful little pulls of muscles and darkening of eyes and rigidity of his mouth, shaping him into something hostile as it undoubtedly fully dawns upon him that Harry is a piece of shit.

A bloom of contentment warms Harry’s chest for a second, easing up his body a little as he thinks that now that Louis understands, he’ll start to fall into the same patterns of predictability as everyone else—until the fairy speaks again.

“A good soul,” he grits through his teeth. “That’s who I am. And _you_ are giving that cane back to Camron who’s probably still sitting out there unable to do anything to help himself out of this situation that you put him in, unprompted and unjustified. Who does that? Do you not have any bloody manners?”

Harry just blinks.

He’s still—

He’s still under the impression that he has some sort of power here, then?

Harry’s never met a creature so evidently unintimidating with such irrevocable hubris in his entire existence. People just don’t—they don’t react like this to him. They don’t stand their ground like this, they don’t—they don’t _challenge_ him like this.

“Do you know who I am?” he settles for in the end, in lack of any other possible theory. His hands tighten around the cane like it’s a concrete symbol of his pride.

But Louis just keeps meeting his eyes, icy blues so unbearably confident and unwavering, and he says, “Yeah.”

Harry nods, barely noticeably, more to himself than anything else. So back to the complete, blinding hubris theory, then.

“Then you should probably watch that pretty little mouth of yours.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Harry can’t help another abrupt laugh.

Oh, maybe _that’s_ Louis’ problem. It’s a hero thing. He’s pretty and harmless, and he needs to compensate somehow. 

He’s a self-righteous one, Harry senses, yeah, mouthy little fairy who yearns to be more than meets the eye. He’s just as much of a cliché as Harry is.

Taking a small step forward, Harry just quirks an eyebrow.

“Really now? I can cause you pain so intense you’ll think you’re dying with a flick of my hand, and you’re a pixie with a god complex. I’d re-evaluate that statement if I were you.”

Louis’ eyes narrow into furious slits the second the word “pixie” leaves Harry’s lips.

Score.

“I am a _fairy_ ,” he says, his tone so frosty it’s impressive. There’s a sort of command in it that probably would work on anyone that isn’t Harry. “And you are pathetic.”

“Am I now?”

“Well.” Louis purses his lips and raises his eyebrows in challenge. “I’m not the one harassing helpless creatures half my size.”

“Creatures half _your_ size? Must be hard to find, pixie,” Harry cuts in, just to be a dick, but to his startlement, Louis just continues to speak over him.

“ _It kind of makes one wonder_ ,” he says, “why don’t you go bother creatures your own size? Afraid you don’t stand a chance against someone mildly equal to yourself?”

The—

The fucking nerve of this boy.

Harry would be genuinely fascinated if Louis weren’t questioning his authority right now. No one does this. No one—Louis _knows_ who Harry is, and yet he’s just completely disregarding it. Harry’s never had to deal with this before, and he hates how much it’s throwing him. Anger builds in the center of his stomach, moving upwards towards his heart, squeezing everything on its way until he feels a little suffocated with it.

Harry glares, taking another step forward. Slowly, he leans down so he’s almost at eye level with Louis. The fairy looks way too smug now—still so unable to hide his feelings—and it’s tearing at Harry’s skin.

“Don’t question my abilities, little one,” he murmurs, suppressed anger rasping his voice. “I could fuck you up so badly. I could end you, if I wanted to. So take my advice and keep out of my business.”

He doesn’t back down. Louis doesn’t fucking back down. Staring right back, he says:

“I thought we settled that I’m not scared of you.” Harry can count every little freckle on his nose. “And if you have just a seed of decency in your body, just a _pinch_ of something that’s not wholly and completely despicable, you’re giving Camron his cane back.”

Harry wants to tear his hair out. _He_ doesn’t _have a seed of decency in his body,_ he wants to scream. That’s the whole point of his person.

“I don’t take orders from a sassy nature helper.”

Louis doesn’t answer, just steadies his body further into a wide-legged, confident stance. It’s a game, Harry knows, strenuous and stubborn, neither of them willing to be the first to break the eye contact. Louis’ mouth is pursed, huffed breath through his nose, and though he looks just as frustrated as Harry feels, his eyes are still bright in their hostility. Winter, they look like winter.

God. He’s probably the prettiest boy Harry’s ever seen. It makes him even angrier.

The silence stretches and stretches, not a breath, not a muscle, not an eye blink out of line.

Then, for what feels like the thousandth time since Harry entered this room at this point, Louis throws him another curveball.

He breaks away, face stormy and shoulders lowering in resignation, but there’s a new, other kind of resolve setting in the unhappy corners of his mouth.

“Fine,” he mutters. “Have it your way.”

And then he squeezes past Harry, emphatically elbowing the spirit’s side while doing do, and marches up to the door. Harry’s left standing, looking after him as he opens it carefully.

Harry can’t see Camron, but he knows he’s there. It’s further confirmed when Louis starts talking to someone, eyes towards the floor.

“Hi there,” he says to the dwarf, and his voice is so soft, now. All the bite and the ice and the knifepoint sharpness is stripped off him. He sounds like the kindest, gentlest creature alive. “Come on, buddy. Come on, let’s get you to your room, yeah?”

A brief silence. Then, Camron’s voice.

“Thank you.” He sounds tired, but the pain ebbing from him dissipates a little upon realizing it’s Louis speaking to him, withdrawing step by step and leaving Harry colder and emptier.

“Hey, no problem, alright? Now if you just put your arm here…”

Louis crouches down, disappearing out of Harry’s view a little, and perhaps Harry should keep fighting, maybe he should leave, maybe he should poke and prod until Louis loses himself to anger, but Harry’s barely registering anything except his kind voice, his kind, kind voice as he keeps reassuring, putting out every last one of Camron’s thank you’s and sorry’s. Harry’s not heard anything like it before.

(Or perhaps everyone has a kind voice, if they want to. He just never gets to hear it.)

When the pair’s finally standing up again, Louis’ hand around Camron’s waist and Camron’s arm over Louis’ shoulders, Louis looks back into his room.

It’s like flipping a fucking switch, the way Louis’ eyes go from pearly water to jagged ice tips the second they fall on Harry. It makes something utterly, utterly forbidden pang through Harry’s chest, and he still can’t move. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, this doesn’t happen to him, this _doesn’t happen_ to him, this isn’t _allowed_ to happen to him.

This is a little fucking _fairy_ , and he’s got Harry nailed to his floorboards like he rules gravity.

“Don’t let him have the pleasure. I’ll make you a new cane,” Louis mutters to Camron. “I could grow one out of whatever tree you’d like. Or, that’s growing on campus, at least.”

Camron nods, a little erratically. “I—okay.”

Louis gives the dwarf a little smile. Then he gives Harry a last look.

“Get out of my room, please.” Unkind.

Harry stays still for an additional couple of seconds before his body finally shakes to life. The stormy, prickly vexing that’s been living inside him all day, having calmed in the time he managed to make Camron feel bad, starts bubbling right back up, brewing in his veins again.

When he moves his feet to exit the dorm, it feels like complete and utter defeat.

“Thank you,” Louis says, sounding the least grateful anyone’s ever been as soon as Harry’s fully outside, closing the door behind the three of them. As if Harry’s nothing but air, he starts helping Camron towards the stairs without as much as another word.

This isn’t how this was supposed to go. Harry’d had—he’d had _fun_. It had been an easy, quick fix, it had been what he always does, it had been letting off steam. He’d had power over the situation, he’d been in control, he’d been in his true element—it had been perfect. Everything went swimmingly up until the dreadful, thoughtless moment he ended up inside Louis’ room.

And now, suddenly—suddenly he’s just standing here on his own, left behind holding a stupid cane, and he feels dumb. He feels dumb. He’s lost his power. He’s lost his control.

It’s not fun, anymore. Nothing about this feels fun. It’s lost its point. He just feels like. Well.

An asshole.

He feels like an asshole, and he feels heavy, heavy, heavy with it.

Louis and Camron are chatting softly between them, and Harry’s hopelessly caught in the lull of Louis’ tone. He sounds like he looks, when he speaks to Camron. Petal-soft, crisp, clean. It bites inexplicably at Harry’s bones, the way it contrasts the hard, dark, cold way he handles Harry. He’s never seen a switch so evident, he’s never—

In his most private, tiny little heart inside his other heart inside his other heart, there’s an infinitely weak but golden spark of longing. Miniscule in its size, but vast in how illicit it is, there’s a spark of longing for someone to speak to him kindly. He’s accepted long ago that it’s not meant for him, but he can’t help it, he _can’t help it_ —Louis’ arm around Camron’s waist is nurturing and supportive, and a small smile is embedded in his words as he continues to speak, distracting Camron effectively. The waves of pain from the dwarf are nothing but small vibrations of discomfort, now, and they’re not doing anything for Harry. There’s just an emptiness, now, that he hasn’t felt since he was a child, really, the sort of emptiness he desperately wants to fill with nothing but affection.

It’s forbidden and it’s tiny, but when he’s empty of everything else, a tiny spark is all it takes. 

Just before Louis and Camron start taking on the first set of stairs, Harry catches up to them, body moving on its own accord. He stops them with a quiet cough.

“Um,” he says when they turn to him. He looks promptly down at his feet as to not have to see Louis’ gentleness wash away so evidently again. “Here.”

He holds out the cane to Camron. It still feels like a symbol of his pride.

There’s a loaded silence as Camron’s wide stare fleets over Harry, over Louis, over the cane, back to Harry. Harry’s own eyes flicker uncertainly between the floor and Camron, but he still doesn’t dare look at Louis.

 _This is so fucking beneath you_ , his mind tells him.

“Um,” Camron finally echoes, accepting the wooden stick from Harry’s grip with a cautiousness, as if he’s afraid Harry’s just messing with him somehow. Maybe that’s what Harry should be doing. He’s quite certain, actually, that’s what he should be doing. But he’s not. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Harry just mutters. “Whatever.”

Camron lets go of Louis to balance himself again, and then he turns to Louis—not to Harry, to _Louis_ —with a beam so bright and grateful it feels like Harry’s physically been cut.

“You’re—you’re a miracle worker,” he gushes. “Thanks for helping me.”

Finally, Harry dares observe Louis. The fairy’s grinning right back at Camron, and for a brief moment, he sends a smug glance Harry’s way.

God, he’s so fucking infuriating. The scorn Harry sends straight back should be enough to kill him on the spot in the most desirable of worlds.

(Except, it doesn’t. Because Harry doesn’t choose for it to hurt. Why hasn’t he hurt Louis yet? What the hell is wrong with him? What is Louis doing to him? Harry still can’t bring himself to change it even as he thinks it. He needs to get it the fuck together.)

Now that Camron has his cane, he’s free to return to his dorm on his own, so he does. He waves joyously to Louis as he starts descending the stairs. Louis and Harry remain where they are. Now that the whole situation’s truly dawning upon Harry, now that he’s starting to realize what he’s done, he’s slowly starting to feel sick.

He just went against who he is for the first time since he lost his wings.

This—this little _pixie_ of a boy, this red-cheeked, tiny, naïve little creature—for a moment, had enough power over Harry to make him go against everything he is. He had enough power to make the pain Harry causes feel pointless, he made—he made Harry’s existence feel _pointless_. Stupid. Wrong. He made it feel wrong.

Harry hasn’t felt wrong in a long time, now. In fact, Harry’s worked his entire fucking existence to suppress and adapt and mold himself into something that isn’t wrong, and Louis obliterated all that hard work with a single act—even if it was only for one, weak moment. He still did it. He lured out the same insecurity that Harry’s mother finds so vile and dangerous she’s made him fear for his life as soon as it’s poked its ugly head out thus far. 

And that’s not okay. It’s dangerous. It’s extremely, petrifyingly dangerous, and Harry’s face is heating with fury. He can’t stand being in Louis’ vicinity for much longer at this point or he’s going to do something he’ll absolutely get expelled for.

“Don’t think I’ll just let this go, pixie,” he murmurs to Louis. “I swear on Hades you’ll regret this every single day for the rest of your life.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.” Louis meets his eyes steadily. Nothing about him is scared and it’s just as terrifying as it’s enraging. “I’ll deal.”

Harry could hurt him, now. He could. He could make Louis writhe on the floor if he wanted to, could make him regret everything.

He doesn’t. He needs to think this through first. Louis isn’t any other creature, and Harry needs a plan for him.

Instead, he shakes his head and throws him one last dirty look. “If you ever dare to speak loudly about this, I will actually cut your wings off.”

“Aw, your little secret is safe with me,” Louis coos back. It takes all of Harry’s strength not to throttle him on the spot.

When Harry leaves, he’s only got one strong determination left taking up all his thoughts.

If he’s going to get rid of Louis—and he has to—he needs to do it step by step. It needs to be progressive but effective, it needs to build; he can’t haste into this. He needs to be careful with this boy, yes, but he can do it. Build, and bring him to a breaking point, and leave him as the dust settles—he underrated him this once, but he won’t make the same mistake again. Everyone can be broken down if the right buttons are pushed, and how to do that is all Harry knows. It’s all he’s good at, and it’s all he’s good _for_ —if he can’t break Louis down, he’s nothing.

His inside monologue wears his mother’s voice.

He’s going to slowly but surely tear Louis to pieces. He’s going to fucking ruin him.

He has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (i don't know if anyone actually reads these notes but this is my space to ramble and i'll stop when i'm dead)
> 
> anyway i wanna talk abt one more thing rly quickly before i go!!  
> i'm genuinely very ok with criticism. i'm not exposed to a lot of it bc i don't actively search for it, but i know that this isn't a fic for everyone, and that's not something i take offense to. there is, however, one little, teeny tiny criticism that's recently made its way to me that i do want to talk about a bit, and it is the one of this supposedly being some kind of suppressed dark harry het fic.
> 
> friends. i'm a lesbian. i'm a lesbian writing a love story about two men. i don't really know how to make that equation less heterosexual.
> 
> i'd normally not address smth this way bc most of the time it's truly not that deep and i really don't want any conflict, but upon learning that some people read this monster of a fic and their takeaway in the end is that the author secretly wants to fuck a mean bad boy version of harry styles, i fear i must defend myself. it's a bad take! no offense to anyone's conclusion abilities, just really don't want to be called straight ever in my life. 
> 
> i wrote harry and louis the way i did because:  
> 1\. i simply had the idea of the plot before i had the idea of making it a fic. nothing about how i wrote harry or louis (or anyone else) mirrors how i claim they are in real life nor how i want them to be in real life. it's just a fic.  
> 2\. i've always been quite fond of the tough/soft dynamic and wanted to try it out, and i tried my best to give it some nuance as the story progressed. i know it's a widely used and very cliché trope, so if some people don't like that dynamic or feel weird about it, that's okay! and if some people automatically associate tough/soft with man/woman exclusively, that's their own cross to bear. however, if you also happen to extend that association to me being attracted to men (or otherwise pandering to a straight audience)--please refrain. i really hope none of this is coming off snarky or rude, but it genuinely makes me mad uncomfortable. thank u! x
> 
> phew anyway now that we've bizarrely cleared up that i'm not straight nor want to bang my comfort person! i really do love all of you. thank you so much for reading and for staying interested in this story--you're legends and icons and i'm baking you cherry pies in my mind always. if you have any time stamps/scenes/anything you'd like to read, feel free to leave suggestions!! i have one timestamp exploring harry post tartaros, and one little fluffy sick fic type thing in the works right now :) if you want to talk or yell or tell me about your day, i'm on tumblr @tequiladimples. be my friend! i'll see you soon <33333


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